


Worship the Sun

by kaeorin



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Loki (Marvel) Feels, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Protective Loki (Marvel), Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Loki wakes up beside you and can’t take his eyes off of you. But you won’t wake up. He has to find a way to make you stir.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 311





	Worship the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiningloki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiningloki/gifts).



> I mean...what can I say? I've written 50+ fluffy little pieces with only the barest whispers of hints of smut and maybe my brain is starting to rebel. This is decidedly NOT one of Loki's Lullabies, though it does have a lot of softness and warmth because this Loki practically worships you.

It was at once lovely and torture for Loki to be the first one awake. He loved those quiet moments where he got to watch the sun creep along the bed, got to watch it kiss your skin and pull you out of the darkness of night. He could lose time lying there just gazing at your face. You slept so sweetly. This morning, your lips had parted just slightly, and you’d sighed. His heartbeat had sped up a little then, thinking that you were waking up at last, but then you’d drawn your eyebrows together before burying your face into your pillow. 

He hadn’t been able to resist, then, and lifted his hand to caress your cheek. You were always so soft beneath his touch, with a warmth that always made him smile. When you were awake, you would often press a little more firmly into his touch, but today you did not move.

He called your name once, in a quiet singsongy voice, hoping to ease you back into the waking world, and your only response had been a low growl. As though you could feel him watching you, only a few moments later you rolled onto your back and flung your arm across your face. He had grown rather fond of watching the way your body moved when you were asleep and he was awake. There was never any hint of cautiousness. You slept deeply, greedily, and gave no outward sign of realizing that you shared your bed with a monster.

That was, perhaps, where some of the torture came in.

He drew his fingertips down your throat, down your chest, and then slipped his hand beneath your shirt to rest it against the heat of your belly. Your breathing was still deep and even, and he smiled at the way his hand rose and fell with each breath. Then he crept still higher again, until he could brush his fingers along the undersides of your breasts. Even now, after all this time, he still sometimes had to pause to marvel at how soft your body was. He closed his hand around one breast and massaged it gently, drinking in the feel of you. You sighed, a whispered breath, and it drew his eyes back up to your face. You had yet to stir. He took your nipple between his fingers and pinched it gently. 

Even as you slept, your body began to respond to him. When he’d coaxed your first nipple to attention, he moved on to the second, treating your other breast with the same quiet attention as the first. When both of your nipples were hard, pressing against the thin material of your shirt, he gave them each one last tender tweak before moving his hand back down your stomach. He wanted to take them into his mouth, feel you arch into him as you awoke, but he had other plans first. 

You’d fallen asleep in your underwear. He had to say that he was rather a fan of the look: rumpled, sleepy, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and soft cotton panties. He’d wanted to do some of this to you the night before, but you’d simply been too far gone, your eyelids too heavy. It may have been more polite of him to wait for you to wake up, but your body called to him from beneath the covers, and he was not strong enough to resist. He pushed the blankets a little further down your body and let his hand caress you through your panties. He felt the soft outline of your sex, your outer lips, but did not press any further. Instead, he covered you with his hand. You liked it when he covered you like that as you were coming down from orgasm, you’d whispered to him once, and, to be honest, he liked it too. It made him feel that you were safe. Protected. You were everything to him, now that he’d finally let himself give in to you, and sometimes he felt like he could devour you whole.

He stole another glance at your face, but nothing had changed. It occurred to him then, and not for the first time, to be selfishly frustrated by how much you trusted him in your bed. Perhaps if you’d been a little more wary of him, you might already be awake, so he could get on with this properly, with your permission. 

Ah, well. He sat up a bit and pulled gently on your shirt to expose you to him. He loved the shape of your body, the swell of your tummy and the curve of your waist. He loved your breasts, of course, especially when you were awake and tried, blushing, to hide yourself from him. This was exquisite too. He moved closer so he could take one of your nipples between his teeth, and laved it with warm affection. You sighed again, but this time it held more of an edge. He smiled to himself and bit down just a little harder. In the dark of night, you’d been experimenting with your limits, asking him to take you further and further to see where the pleasure stopped, but here in the golden light of day, that felt wrong. You arched a little, and he took advantage of that to slip one arm beneath you. He left a trail of soft nibbles and kisses along the curves of your breasts and the sweet space between them as he enjoyed the taste of your skin.

“Loki...” Ah, you were awake then. His heart fluttered in his chest and he looked up without releasing your nipple. You were peering down at him from below the crook of your elbow. He caught the beginnings of a smile on your lips. “I’m too sleepy...”

“I’ve got you,” he answered. “Just lie back, darling. Let me take care of you.” You drew your lower lip between your teeth as you considered the idea. You still had certain hang-ups about this kind of thing, surely left over from some brutish lover in the past. It was not often that you allowed him to _take care of you_ without guilt, but this morning, you nodded cautiously. 

Warmth rushed through him, pleasure, tender affection for you, and he moved up your body so he could kiss you. A soft moan escaped your lips, and he swallowed it hungrily. You twined your arms up and around his neck but when you arched your hips against him, he did his best to pull back. He tutted disapprovingly at you before sinking his teeth into your neck. “That is _not_ just lying back.” 

“I _love_ you.” It was part whine, part protest, and it made him laugh even as he kissed his way down your body. He loved you like this. Warm and pliant, he knew your body ached to comply with his request even though your mind told you not to. He let his tongue dip into your navel. When he reached the waistband of your panties, he took a moment to take it between his teeth and look up at you along the stretch of your body. Even from here, he could see the hunger in your eyes. He knew he looked the same. He let go, then, and the elastic snapped back gently against your skin.

He parted your thighs with a tender touch, and took his place between them. Sometimes he felt you fighting against the muscles in your legs, fighting against the urge to close yourself off from him, but this morning, you held steady. He murmured his praise to you even as he drew his nose along the cloth that hid you from him. You were his good girl. His pretty girl. You tried to be so good for him. Sometimes he was tempted to try bringing you to orgasm simply with words like that. Praise could make you squirm, make you try to hide your face, but it was never difficult for him to pull your hands away. He drew in a deep breath of you, the rich, sweet scent of your sex and your arousal, and then pressed his mouth against you to exhale hot breath against your outer lips. You whimpered.

He took his time here. He drew soft flesh between his teeth and bit down only hard enough to remind you he was there. He pressed hungry kisses to the insides of your thighs even as he gripped you tightly. He breathed you in, losing himself in you like the sweetest wine. It wasn’t about torturing you. His attention made you squirm, of course, made you whisper his name in breathy sighs, but this was merely his Hunger. He’d like to spend entire days here between your legs, buried in the feel and scent of you, this close to the most sensitive, vulnerable part of your body and merely treasuring it. He moved one hand away from your leg to run it along your panties, and was pleasantly surprised to feel your wetness beginning to soak through. That was another thing he loved. As shy as you could be at times like this, your body cried out for him. He growled against you one last time before reaching up to work your panties down over your hips. In another sort of situation, he might have simply ripped them off of you, the light fabric no match for the strength in his fingers, but that didn’t feel right this morning.

When you were finally, finally laid bare to him, he parted your lips and blew a soft breath against your wetness. He loved your cunt. He loved every last inch of you and how your body had been so perfectly crafted to bring you through life and to him, but he especially loved your cunt. He kissed your mound again before giving in and touching you with his fingertips. He avoided your clit, not entirely willing to give you any relief just yet, and instead traced every other part of you. You were soaked for him. For _him_. That was always a heady realization.

He gave in. He pressed his tongue against you, lapping gently even as the taste of you filled his senses. Dimly, he could hear your low groan, and he felt the way you arched closer to his mouth, but he took his time. Your clit was swollen, desperate already, and he closed his mouth around it, sucking gently—but not for too long. You shuddered and worked your fingers through his hair, already trying to urge him onward. As precious as your orgasms were to him, he wanted _this_ first. So he teased, because he was not ready to lose this yet.

When he slipped a finger inside you, your muscles fluttered around it in desperation. He knew you wanted more, knew that there was already a certain fire building inside you, but he needed to touch you first. He loved the way your arousal could coat him, the way he could make it drip from you so easily. Here and there he pulled his hand back again so he could lap it up, let his tongue dip inside you for more. He had never wanted anything as much as he wanted this. Each time you let him settle between your legs, let him see and feel so clearly your desire for him, he never wanted it to be over. This was the sweetest nectar, and he took as much of it as you could give.

Your legs were trembling. He turned his head away to kiss your thigh again, but, at the same time, slipped two fingers inside you. The sound you made was half whimper, half moan, and he grinned to himself. In your day-to-day life, you were often in control. You were eloquent and powerful and competent. That was why here, in bed, he loved so much to reduce you to whines and hoarse pleas. You seemed to love it, too. He brought you to the edge several times, but backed away each time just before you could find relief. When he worked a third finger inside you, and felt the stretch of your walls around him, it was hard to focus on anything else. 

This morning, like many other mornings, he spelled things out against you with his tongue. Sometimes it was nothing more than pet names, terms of endearment that could not otherwise fall from his lips. Sometimes it was love letters to the way you looked and sounded there beneath him. Sometimes it was arcane inscriptions. Spells of protection. Spells for good fortune. Spells for love. The wise ones who’d come before, the ones who had written the books, perhaps they knew what they were doing, because the spells for love and hunger and heat, they always made you come the hardest. He worked you through this sweet torture until his name fell from your lips in a ragged prayer. 

He took pity on you. To an extent. Slowly, he worked you back up to your peak, made your legs tremble, made your fingers lock almost painfully into his hair, and then, just as you dangled there on the edge, pleading, arching, he curled his fingers to press that sweet hidden spot inside you and felt you implode. You tightened down around his hand, tugged mindlessly on his hair, howled his name even as he drank you down. Precious thing. Hungry thing. Perfect thing. He loved watching you come. Your body went taut and grasping, only to collapse in on itself as the waves of pleasure eventually began to fade. Sometimes he could work you through several more growing waves, and this morning he did so desperately, fiercely, until he felt you shuddering around him. 

Even before your heartbeat had begun to slow, you tried to sit up. He would have liked to spend more time lapping gently at you, but instead he surged forward to cover your body with his and pin you back down to the mattress. He covered your mouth with his own before you could protest. He loved the way the taste of your mouth mingled with the taste of your cunt when he kissed you. Each tiny detail about you drove him mad. And you had no idea.

He reached between you even as he claimed your mouth, and guided his aching erection between your legs. You wanted to taste him, he knew. Often, you would insist on taking him into your mouth after he made you come, assuring him that you wanted to take care of him. He didn’t always comply. Your face was always open and earnest, but he worried that this, too, was left over from someone who had come before. He didn’t want that to be an obligation.

He rubbed himself against you. He circled your clit with the dripping tip of his cock so he could coat himself in your desire. You whimpered again, still too sensitive, and he smiled and pressed against your entrance instead. But he didn’t push his way inside yet. You were so warm. Heat was pouring out of you, already surrounding him. It was intoxicating. 

“Loki, _please_...” You knew better than to arch up into him in hopes of guiding him inside—you knew he’d only pull back—but he felt you press your legs open a bit wider. For him. His heart stuttered in his chest. “Please? I need you so bad.”

He looked at you. There was no more sleepiness in your face. Your eyes were wide and dark as you stared up at him. He groaned despite himself and ducked to draw you lips between his teeth again. When you looked at him like that, desperate and vulnerable, it made him feel immensely powerful. As far as he could tell, you had no idea. He felt your breath, short little puffs of air that matched perfectly with the way he could feel your heart racing in your chest. He didn’t have words for this. He wanted, so badly, to tell you what you did to him when you laid yourself open to him like this, but he had no idea where to begin. 

The best he could do was push his way inside you. Your body yielded easily to him, stretching around his girth to take him in. Heat flooded through his body, pouring into him like a blessing. You were magic. You were magic and love and light in a single fragile, _perfect_ , human body. When he was finally fully seated within you, his body pressed firmly against yours, he let out a shuddering breath. 

You worked gentle fingers through his hair but did not urge him onward. Perhaps you knew he needed time. You often knew things like that without his having to say a word. He struggled with the words that were roiling inside of him, pathetic attempts to tell you what you did to him, but he did not seek to speak them aloud. Even his so-called silver tongue failed when your body accepted so much of him. When he looked up, you were always watching him with those big soft eyes. You smiled at him.

“I love you.” Your words were simple, but heartfelt, and struck him deeply. They reminded him that you did not always need a poetic recitation. He smiled until he thought his cheeks would burst and kissed you fiercely.

He began to move. As perfect as you felt when he was still, movement only made things better. You were velvet heat, your body clenching around him as though to keep him inside you. He pulled out only ever so he could thrust into you again. He settled into a rhythm that was scarcely more than grinding against you because he wanted this to last. When you tipped your head backwards, he closed his lips around the pulse point in your throat and sucked hungrily. He was marking you, breaking tiny vessels beneath your skin, but he didn’t want to stop. He wanted you to bear his mark. He wanted people to know just by looking at you that you were his. If the moans rumbling through you or your fingers in his hair holding him against you were any indication, you wanted the same. 

Several times he had to stop and leave himself buried, throbbing inside you, in attempt to ease back from his own orgasm. He wasn’t ready to give this up. Really, he was never ready, but there was something especially perfect about your cunt this morning and he wanted to savor it. Each time he stopped, you would groan his name at him, and that didn’t help matters. It was like he _already_ wanted to do this again. Even if he could spend entire days fucking into you and feeling the way your body responded to him, it couldn’t possibly be enough. 

At last, something broke within him, and he slid his arm around your back to pull you up against his body and crushed his lips against yours. He let his tongue delve deeply against yours as he continued his movements in earnest. It wasn’t long before you were fighting for breath. He imagined that he could feel your orgasm building within you even as his own began to swell. He didn’t relent. When you tore your lips away to gasp out his name—a warning—he went right back to kissing you, devouring you, taking every last bit that you could give to him and then pushing for more. Your orgasm broke first. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your muscles and the way your legs wrapped desperately around his hips, but he just kept thrusting deeper inside you. It didn’t take long before you’d pushed him over the edge as well, and his seed spurted into you, hot and thick, your muscles milking him of every last drop. 

Neither of you moved for a long time. Greedily, he fantasized about keeping you here like this, remaining pressed deep inside you until his body had recovered enough for another round. You were all that he needed. He could stay here like this with you, taking air and sustenance and love from your lips, until the very end of his days. You tightened your legs around him, pulling him still deeper, and then slowly lowered them back against the mattress. Then you opened your eyes. 

That. 

That satisfied, love-drunk, blissed-out look in your eyes, he lived for that look. You gave him a shy smile that made him want to kiss you again, and he did.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his when he pulled back again. “I don’t want this to end yet.”

Something like excitement made his heart swell in his chest, and a sly smile stole across his face. “It doesn’t have to.” And then he stole your breath with yet another kiss.


End file.
